The Russian

by Saul Herzog

  Laurel reached down for the grenade launcher, feeling its icy grip beneath her fingers.

  An eternity seemed to pass before there was any movement from the plane. The first person to appear was an extremely attractive Russian woman with bleached blonde hair and an elegantly tailored coat.

  There was no denying the resemblance. It was Tatyana’s sister, for sure.

  Behind her was another woman, shorter, with dark hair and a timidity in her step. This was the second defector, Medvedev’s personal secretary, who Tatyana had somehow managed to hone in on because of a single red scarf.

  Laurel lifted the grenade launcher into her lap, ready to swing it up and fire.

  She prayed Lance didn’t come out.

  The women looked around the windswept runway, shielding their eyes from the low winter sun, and when Larissa saw Tatyana, they began making their way directly to her.

  Laurel looked at Sandra.

  Sandra looked back at her.

  The look on Sandra’s face told Laurel that she wasn’t there by choice. Laurel shook her head, ever so slightly, and Sandra spoke into her radio, telling the gunners to hold off.

  Seconds ticked by, Tatyana swept up the two women and got them into the back of her vehicle. No one challenged her. They were interested only in Lance.

  But Lance didn’t emerge.

  Nothing happened.

  It wasn’t until Tatyana’s SUV pulled off across the runway back toward the gate that there was any movement at all.

  Next to appear was the pilot. He was CIA-trained with a security clearance and knew how to minimize the chance of his accidentally being shot. He first waved his captain’s hat at the door, then appeared, in full uniform, with his face visible and his hands in the air.

  As the pilot made his way to safety, it was clear to everyone that Lance knew what was in store. He’d read the situation, added the permutations, and realized there was no way he was leaving the plane alive.

  The pilot was quickly followed by two hostesses in prim uniforms, their hands in the air as they descended the steps in high heels and oversized sunglasses.

  That left only Lance on the plane.

  Laurel knew she had only the briefest of windows. Any moment, the heavy .50 caliber guns were going to tear the plane’s fuselage to shreds.

  She drew the grenade launcher to her open window and fired all six canisters of gas at the plane’s entrance.

  There was confusion as the military comprehended what had just happened.

  Laurel prayed Lance had seen from the plane. She’d been sitting with her window open in full view, but she didn’t know if he’d looked out at her.

  Sandra must have issued a belated order to open fire because a few of the gunners sprayed the plane with bullets. They fired in short bursts, and many didn’t fire at all, they’d been trained to hold back until they could see their target.

  Thick smoke wafted around the plane, and Laurel pulled her vehicle slowly closer. She’d thought Lance would come to her, that he’d somehow make his way from the aircraft to her car in the smoke, but she saw now that wasn’t going to happen. He hadn’t seen her, or maybe he didn’t want to risk her life.

  But as the seconds passed, and the smoke began to clear, she realized he wasn’t coming.

  And then the sound of jet engines running through their initialization cycle filled the air.

  Lance was going to run for it.

  Laurel stopped thinking. She was no longer acting consciously. She put her foot on the gas, and as the SUV lurched forward, she opened her door and leaped out.

  In the smoke, she saw nothing but the foot of the staircase as it began to retract automatically back into the plane. She grabbed onto it and scrambled up the steps as the gunners obliterated her vehicle with their heavy-caliber fire.

  She scrambled aboard the plane as it began to roll forward, slowly at first but gradually faster.

  “Lance,” she cried out, but there was no answer. Even if there had been, she would never have heard it over the gunfire.

  She lay on the ground, clinging to the base of a seat as the plane gained speed, and bullets clanged everywhere, shooting holes into the walls that spilled light into the cabin like beams from a flashlight.

  As the bullets subsided, she saw that the door of the plane had been blown off and outside on the wing, the engine had burst into flames, casting a billowing plume of angry, black smoke into the sky.

  She got to her feet and ran to the cockpit.

  Lance spun around with a gun, but when he saw her face, the shock of the surprise made him drop it.

  “Laurel,” he gasped.

  “Watch the road,” Laurel said as the plane hurtled toward the rapidly approaching end of the runway.

  Frigidly cold air blasted in through the bullet holes in the windshield.

  “If you take off,” she said, “they’ll shoot us down instantly.”

  She could still feel the acceleration as Lance pushed the throttle forward.

  They were approaching two hundred miles an hour and the flat stretch of concrete was going to run out very soon. Dulles International Airport had four main runways, spread over acres of paved ground, and they were coming to the end of the westernmost runway.

  Laurel didn’t know if the entire airport had been shut down to commercial traffic, and she got her answer when a dark object blocked the sun above them.

  “What the hell is that?” she yelled, as an enormous jetliner descended onto the tarmac behind them.

  “We’re in his lane,” Lance said, pushing the throttle further forward, picking up ever more speed.

  He realized he was driving the plane like a car, with no intention of leaving the ground. A few more seconds passed, and then they hit the end of the runway. It felt like crashing into water.

  Laurel was jolted forward, and Lance caught her before she flew into the cockpit controls. They were in the unpaved portion of land at the end of the runway, and the plane bumped and jolted around so violently Laurel was sure it would fall apart.

  Only when a high fence appeared in the distance did Lance hit the brakes. There was a line of trees on the opposite side of the fence, and the plane burst through the chainlink, coming to a halt mere feet from them.

  The moment the plane stopped, it began to fill with smoke.

  They ran to the door, choking and coughing, and leaped out of the burning aircraft into the hard-packed snow.

  Already, a line of vehicles could be seen on the runway speeding in their direction. Behind the MRAPs and FBI squad cars, Black Hawk helicopters fanned out in echelon formation.

  “Come on,” Lance said.

  They sprinted through the trees. Laurel lost her shoes and ran over the frozen ground barefoot. It felt like running on glass.

  Behind them was sporadic gunfire, but none of it came close.

  They continued through the brush, under the thin tree cover, until they reached a second chainlink fence, twelve feet high, lined at the top with razor wire.

  Lance leaped at it, pulling himself upward and over the top in a single motion. He then removed his jacket and threw it over the top of the fence, providing protection for Laurel from the razor wire.

  She got over the fence, and they kept running as helicopters circled ever closer overhead.

  For a second, Laurel wondered why they didn’t open fire. Then she slipped, falling down a small slope to the edge of a three-lane highway.

  Lance, still ahead of her, didn’t hesitate for a moment. He ran right into the frantic, afternoon traffic, causing cars to skid and swerve dangerously to avoid him. He drew his gun and pointed it at the driver of the first car to come to a complete stop.

  It was a decently-powered Dodge, and the driver got out with his hands in the air. Lance and Laurel got in, and Lance put his foot against the metal. The engine gunned, and the car burned rubber as it shot out of its standing position, hitting sixty, then seventy, then eighty, in a matter of seconds.

  Lance dro
ve recklessly fast, weaving through traffic and using the shoulder as the black hawks trailed behind, close on their tail.

  “We need to lose those,” Lance said to her as he pulled the car onto a steeply-pitched off-ramp.

  The car hit the ramp and bottomed out, sending a spray of sparks behind them as he ran a red light, screeched around a ninety-degree corner, and crossed the overpass.

  Laurel had no idea what his plan was, and when he got back onto the opposite side of the highway, she thought she was going to die.

  “What the hell are we doing?”

  He didn’t answer but kept accelerating through the lighter, northbound traffic. They re-entered the airport zone, speeding past overflow parking lots, warehouses, and hangars. When they got to the first public entry point, Lance jammed on the brakes and crashed over a concrete curb into the airport proper.

  He took the turn for the departure terminal and drove into one of the enormous, multistory lots reserved for long-term parking. The Black Hawks still circled overhead. They could hear them, but could no longer see them.

  Lance stopped the car as a gush of steam burst out of the hood.

  “Poor thing,” Laurel said, as they abandoned it, running along the line of parked cars.

  They stopped at the first older car they reached, an eighties Ford pickup truck, and Lance smashed the driver’s side window and unlocked the car.

  Then he reached behind the steering column and found the wires for the starter. It took all of thirty seconds to get the engine fired up.

  “Here we go,” he said, and then very slowly, like the world’s most careful driver, made his way for the parking lot exit on the other end of the lot.

  A minute later, they were joining a stream of rush hour traffic in the direction of the city, the Black Hawk helicopters swarming over the airport behind them.

  92

  Tatyana drove without talking, without looking behind her, without slowing down.

  It was not the time for emotional reunions.

  When they passed the gate, she glanced toward the plane and saw a thick, black plume of smoke rising into the sky.

  For all she knew, Lance and Laurel were already dead.

  She couldn’t rely on them.

  She couldn’t rely on Roth.

  These women were proof that the president’s narrative on what happened in Moscow and Beijing was a lie. That meant their lives were in grave danger.

  She made her way for the highway and didn’t turn to speak to Larissa until they were well on their way out of the city.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” she said in Russian.

  Larissa covered her face. She seemed to be holding back tears. She reached forward and grabbed Tatyana’s shoulder.

  “Me neither,” she said.

  They got onto the interstate at Legato and pulled into the westbound traffic.

  “Where are we going?” Larissa said.

  “I don’t know,” Tatyana said.

  “Lance said you’d be taking us to the capital. To the CIA.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Tatyana said, “given what just happened at the airport.”

  They passed a large sign bearing the iconic badge of Route 66, and Svetlana said, “America, here we come.”

  They drove on a little in silence, and Tatyana said to Svetlana, “You were his secretary.”

  Svetlana looked at her in the mirror. “Among other things.”

  Tatyana nodded. She knew what that meant. She’d known it the first time she saw Svetlana on the satellite feed.

  “The scarf?” Larissa said. “The Young Pioneers?”

  “Medvedev made me wear it.”

  Larissa nodded.

  “Do you really not know where we’re going?” Larissa said.

  Tatyana shrugged. “The CIA is after you. The Kremlin is after you. What do you think we should do?”

  “I thought the CIA was going to offer us protection,” Svetlana said.

  “The CIA is going to do whatever the president orders,” Tatyana said, “and right now, the president doesn’t want anyone on earth knowing of the existence of Mikhail Medvedev.”

  “Do we have money?” Larissa said.

  Tatyana nodded.

  “How long until they know we’re on the run?”

  “Lance is their main priority. I don’t think they’ll even think to ask the CIA about you two until they have him.”

  “And this vehicle?”

  “If I know Roth, this vehicle is clean. Completely clean.”

  “A little makeup then,” Larissa said. “Some sunglasses.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Tatyana said.

  She waited until they’d made a little distance and then picked up her phone and dialed Roth’s number.

  His voice filled the vehicle. “Tatyana, did you get them?”

  “I got them,” she said.

  “They tried to kill Lance.”

  “Did they get away?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Thank God.”

  “What about you?”

  “We’re on the road,” Tatyana said.

  Roth was quiet for a moment, then said, “I think that’s probably a good idea.”

  “We’re thinking, keep our heads down a few days, wait for the dust to settle.”

  “Like Thelma and Louise,” Larissa said. “Only there’s three of us.”

  “All right,” Roth said. “I’ll clear all tracers on you. They won’t know where to begin. They won’t even have facial recognition.”

  “We have papers and money,” Tatyana said.

  “Where will you go?”

  Tatyana looked in the rearview mirror at Larissa and Svetlana questioningly.

  “Somewhere warm,” Larissa said.

  “Stay safe, ladies,” Roth said before hanging up.

  They drove on, and Larissa climbed up into the passenger seat in front.

  “How about some music?” she said.

  “All right,” Tatyana said, looking at her.

  She knew her sister was still in shock after the events she’d just been through. The same would be true for Svetlana. A little time off the grid would do them good.

  “Where are we going to go?” Svetlana said.

  Tatyana was about to answer when Larissa said, “Miami.”

  She looked at Tatyana.

  Tatyana sighed. She’d been thinking somewhere a little more low-key.

  “Do you think you two could tone down the accents? Make yourselves sound less …”.

  “Russian?” Larissa said.

  Tatyana smiled.

  “Exactly.”

  93

  Laurel looked at Lance. She’d been sleeping in the passenger seat while he drove, and she didn’t think he knew she was awake.

  She didn’t know where they were. It was dark and had been for hours. They were on a straight road with dry grassland on either side. She opened the window and it was a lot warmer than it had been when she fell asleep.

  They were alone. For the first time since they’d met, there would be no one around. They would be off the grid, hiding out for what could turn out to be quite a long time.

  They’d been listening to the radio before she fell asleep, and there wasn’t one word about the escape. The incident at the airport was being played off as a crash. Laurel had been afraid they’d turn the whole thing into the largest manhunt in history, but it seemed the president preferred to keep the whole incident quiet.

  That gave her hope.

  Before too long, Roth would have them both back on the books. They just needed to give him some time, let the dust settle, wait for the president to realize he needed Roth, and the Group more than they needed him.

  She watched Lance drive.

  She wondered how much time they had.

  “Where are we going?” she said.

  “A little place I passed through once,” he said. “Somewhere no one else knows about.”


  “Not even Roth?”

  “Especially not Roth.”

  Behind them, the sun was just beginning to rise, and a ray of light hit the mirror and reflected onto Lance’s face.

  It was a handsome face, she thought, chiseled, like someone had carved it from wood and polished it to a fine sheen.

  “We’ll be at the border soon,” he said.

  She nodded. She pulled a pack of smokes from her jacket and lit one. She held the pack to Lance, but he shook his head.

  He looked at her.

  “What?” she said, thinking he was about to complain about the smoke.

  “You sure you want to do this?” he said. “It’s not too late to cut you loose. You could say I forced you to do what you did.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone would buy that.”

  “Roth would finagle an explanation.”

  Laurel shook her head. “No,” she said.

  “You don’t think Roth would take you back?”

  “Take me back?”

  “After what you just did.”

  “What I just did was Roth’s idea. Who do you think put a grenade launcher in the back of my car?”

  “Roth’s idea.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s really pushing his luck these days.”

  “You mean Moscow, and now this?”

  “Yeah,” Lance said. “If he’s not careful, he’s going to find himself on the wrong side of the president.”

  Laurel nodded. “Anyway,” she said, “even if Roth could protect me, I wouldn’t want to leave.”

  Lance looked at her. She caught his eye, and he looked back at the road.

  “That crossing’s about thirty miles up ahead,” he said. “We should prepare.”

  A neon sign in the shape of a cactus glowed up ahead, the words “El Paso Flamingo” blinking in pink.

  “Looks like a motel,” Laurel said.

  There was a diner and gas station attached to it, and Lance pulled over by the pumps. They had false passports for crossing the border, but they each had a little tidying up to do.

  Lance filled up on gas while Laurel went to the dingy washroom next to the store. She locked the door and looked around. The floor was raw concrete, too rough to mop, but porous enough to absorb the odor of every spill. Flies hovered around the sole window, and the stench of urine almost made her gag.